Archive for September, 2008

For real. I saw him near my house. He looked like the Dude, was listening to Creedence on a shitty handheld tape player, and his sandals were falling apart.

I’ve now been watching for him. I think I could pull off a reasonable Walter. I would need to cut my hair short and work on my bull-dykeness, but I’ve got the anger down. I can just go off on adoption all the time, instead of Vietnam.

So the younger of the two I watch had to write a letter to the Three Bears from Goldilocks, apologizing for what she had done. Here is his, with the spelling entirely his. I wish there was a way to write all of the letters backwards, too.

Dear Bears,

Sorry for disastar areea. Ate oatmeal, and it was not good. You are luckee I did not poop on your bed. You did not haf a toylet.

(I then encourage him to include a reason why she did so much to the bears)

I did it because I haet bears.

Love,

Goldilucks.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh god.

His moms were not amused. I was, though. It made my day. I bet that his teacher assigns these things for her own amusement. I know I would, if I taught first grade.

This is my month to host! Hooray! I picked an excellent graphic novel for you guys. Oh, yes, a graphic novel. All of you snobby-snobs who think that graphic novels are just “comics,” well, I hope this one can open your eyes.

I have picked Incognegro, by Mat Johnson and Warren Pleece. It is a noir-murder mystery set in the South during the 30s. A black reporter “passes” as white to investigate a murder that his brother supposedly committed. It deals with the issues that go with “passing,” which is a definite topic for those of us with varied backgrounds who appear “white.”

The art is fabulous, and the story is even better!

You can pick it up on Amazon.com, and I think Borders has it, too. Amazon is selling it really cheaply, though. I bought mine for 30, and it’s selling for 13! Doh!

I’ve been holding off in writing about my meeting with my biological aunt. It was a lot to process.

Here are some interesting things:

1. I am genetically Catholic. That is, my bio-family is all Catholic. This is funny, because as a child I desperately wanted to be a martyred saint. I had a book of saints, and I would make lists pertaining to my obsession, i.e., preferred ways to die (pecked apart by birds), crest (fist with a pen in it), special animal friend (tiger). My biological aunt also had the desire to be a martyr as a child. I actually have a relative who is the process of being canonized. Wooo! There is still hope for me!

2. My family is a bunch of “contrarians,” as my uncle Dan said. We argue, argue, and then argue some more, just for the thrill of it. That sounds familiar…

3. My family lovvves to get on stage. That is definitely true with me. The bigger the crowd, the more I love it. I really, really enjoy public speaking.

4. Oops, we get diabetes from liking sweets too much. An allergy to chocolate is also common, as is ignoring the allergy and suffering the consequences later.

I am a woman. My personality is that of a cobra. It takes me a while to get riled up, but when I do, you will get taken down. I am vicious, I am unkind.

So what if I get angry a lot of the time? There is a lot to get angry about! Racism, sexism, homophobia, classism. Those are just the ones in my neighbourhood, that directly influence my life! My personality is one that does not tolerate injustice. I have some of the most loyal friends in the world. Why? Because I do not fake emotions. They know if I’m angry. Most of my friends are the same way. Maybe their personalities are not as volatile as mine, but they certainly are not fake idiots who lie through their teeth. They lie with their mouths wide open!

Sorry. I’m not going to fucking smile if I’m pissed off. I’m not going to fundamentally change who I am to make someone’s day a little more comfortable. That’s the problem, isn’t it? The issue is not that people especially care if I’m wrecking my own life by being angry. They just don’t like being made uncomfortable. It’s not comfortable when someone you expect to be a doormat spits in your face. It’s not comfortable when you say something racist, because you think every white-appearing person is also a racist, and that person calls you out. It’s not comfortable when you get hassled by a college-aged girl for being an asshole who won’t give up their seat on the bus for a little old lady.

Tough. I’m not going to re-think my anger. In fact, I’m going to increase it. My rage will become a fireball to cleanse this city. I’m a one-woman crusade against rudeness. I will not be someone’s pet. I will not be tamed. I will not laugh at stupid jokes. I will not run across the crosswalk so cars aren’t inconvenienced. I WILL stare you down. I WILL laugh in your face. I WILL roll my eyes. I WILL attack you personally.

So far my new job has been awesome. The two boys are really quite good. You can really tell they are the children of lesbians: they are well-behaved, feminists, sensitive, and their worst insult for one another is “George Bush.” Haha.

They love to try to test me, however. I don’t mind, in fact, I find it funny to thwart their bad behaviour. My favourite response is sarcasm, which usually infuriates them. My other favoured tactic is to mock them, i.e.

Me: Yeah, and she told me you don’t have to do any of your chores, either.

BB: Really?!

Me: No. Do your chores, or I’m adding another worksheet.

Their moms make them do extra worksheets if they don’t have any homework. I find this hilarious, and also a great punishment for being naughty. The older one doesn’t really care about time-outs (he’s 9), so if he decides to misbehave, I add extra worksheets. His moms totally back me up, too. He decided to try to tattle on me for being “mean” and told his mom I gave him 2 extra sheets one day.

She answered, “Well, since you were so naughty that she had to add extra sheets AND you decided to try to weasel your way out of them, you get ANOTHER sheet.”

My employers are really nice, and the kids are actually very well-behaved. It turns out that I am still able to play those crazy games kids make up. We have a set of elaborate rules for a new game we invented outside. They’ve been obsessed with it, but whine that their moms cannot seem to pick up on the rules.

Probably because their moms don’t actually have the mind of a 9 year old boy, like I do!